


The Twelfth Player

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Croatia NT, Croatia vs. Spain, Gen, Maksimir, Retaliation, UEFA Nations League, Zagreb, spain nt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Ramos learns something about Croatia on Maksimir stadium. Post-Zagreb, 15. 11. 2018.





	The Twelfth Player

**Author's Note:**

> 2WEI — Funeral March (Frédéric Chopin cover)

He doesn't remember much from that evening. In fact, all he was doing the entire night was ensuring it didn't happen. Thus why he arrived back to his homeland with the rest of them half-dead like he had spent the day before competing with a herd of charging elephants.

Above displeased crowd noises every time the ball was in the possession of the white jerseys and Lovren's provocative poking the entire while, he remembered walking down the Maksimir tunnel with his team in tow, checkered-clad mascot's small hand in his own, when he felt another hand grasp a hold of his upper arm. He knew that feeling so well that he knew who to expect to see even before he turned his head.

Modrić leaned in so that his lips touched his ear; a gesture by all means meant only for him, outside the circle of other ears that might be too unbusy.

„Whatever you see out there, whatever you find — don't get intimidated", the shorter captain only said.

Ramos didn't answer, mostly because he was too busy trying to chase the nervousness away, but a random drawer of his brain analyzed Modrić's sentence from the moment it was said, leaving him clapping automatically throughout the ceremony of the three recently retired players.

Twenty minutes into the game, trying to catch his breath, he understood. But it was already too late.

  
  


„War, huh?"

Sergio shuddered, residuum of odd creeps falling off of his person. He didn't move, but his eyes traveled to the whereabouts of Nacho who sat to his right. ˮUnlike anything I've seen before. Trust me, I'm not getting back to Croatia anytime soon, regardless if Luka calls me over or not."

Nacho rhythmically bumped his heels against the floor of the facility lobby. He knew he shouldn't be provoking the injury, but trying to be calm is only going to lead him to atrophy. The outlook through the windows showed the impeccable green of Real Madrid's training grounds basking in sunlight. ˮI feel you... I think. In one, more selfish hand, I'm glad I wasn't there."

Ramos weakly shook his head, staring dead ahead. Nacho struggled not to point out the dark rings under his eyes. His entire bearing was off, sprawled on the sofa like he was offering himself to whoever or whatever wanted to do anything with him, and he looked like he aged ten years in two days.

„It's not that. You weren't there. You didn't feel or heard what we did. It was... a physical pressure above our heads the entire time. Entering the field was like entering a gladiator-fight arena. You know how Luka joked to Marca that 'they will have war'? Well, he might've been joking, but all those people definitely weren't. It wasn't just a game that needed winning. It was personal, we made it so in Elche. We weren't going against eleven guys, we went against 33 000 souls. We were gladiators and they the audience thirsty for blood and carnage. Revenge. Those people, I..."

The Spain and Real captain had to pause. Nacho didn't want to interrupt him, but he never heard him talk this slow, or quiet before. They were in a closed space, but if they weren't, Nacho wasn't sure if he would be able to hear him. Ramos looked genuinely exhausted, and it wasn't just because of the games.

„They were down there with Lukita and the others, they ran with them, they fought with them. Their voices directed the game's trajectory. Never mind the mean comments, the whistling or rude gestures, nothing unexpected there. We were prepared for it. It's nothing new.

No, they were here to prove both their team and themselves, and it was like one of us was going against 3000 of them. None of us could properly greet any of their team members afterward. It was a dick move compared to what we did to them in Elche, yes, but it wasn't just about loss. This whole energy of the fans was still with us... We had to get out of there as soon as possible, or else we would've suffocated."

He paused and curved his lips downwards. So far he didn't properly meet Nacho's gaze once.

„We have ten times more people, always, in every way — and yet I never felt the same energy within them; this unity, this will to prove the world wrong and say ˮyes, we are few in number, but we are strong, we are united and there is nothing you can do to stop us". Even when they lose, they are restless, and it only just adds more fuel to the fire. I think..." he swallowed thickly. There was still this heavy, feverish weight in his thickly-dark eyes.

„I think I was scared, Nacho. We knew what atmosphere to expect, but _nothing_ could've ever prepared us for that. I felt their might. It was truly the power of the people who could walk home satisfied even if they had lost and say ˮwe've given them a good one". And they sure did because it kept me up the whole night. This strength... it's in their nature - and something not a single Spaniard can ever hope to gain."

Now Nacho was either truly worried for his friend's health or fascinated by the content he was being told because Sergio was a proud man to an enormous extent. He was certain he figured out an eerie similarity between Sergio and infamous center-back Dejan Lovren, even as they'd both chew fire if he even peeped a word about it. And hearing the Spaniard praise another country to these spans was very alarming... or very astonishing.

„You can win the World Cup, you can be the European champion, you can dump as many goals to your opponent's net as you want... but with that soul, that steel mentality — the heart of fire..." Ramos paused with a hand gesturing somewhere in the distance. His eyes weren't on this Earth, either, and Nacho had a feeling that if he tried to gain his attention, he would never get it. He doubted Sergio was aware of his presence, too.

He wasn't sure who Ramos was talking about anymore. The fans, the Croatian people or Luka Modrić.

„...you have to be born with it."

  
  


As of now, Nacho Fernández had mixed reviews on his injury. On one hand, he'd been really eager to participate, for obvious reasons — and guaranteed he would've been of help, but not so much guarantee if that would change the outcome. On the other, it meant he watched the game at home with his family, with an admittedly high level of nervousness, feeling his kidneys fail twice during the game, and eventually sink and drown in their own fat after young Jedvaj's triumph, glad the world couldn't see his anguished face.

Days later upon Luka's return to Ciudad Real Madrid, Nacho caught a glimpse of what Ramos was talking about.

Luka arrived looking more exhausted than ever, having the life beaten out of him on Wembley as well as back in Zagreb, but that didn't stop Marcelo from hugging the living daylights out of him when he first spotted him, knowing how much the previous victory meant to the magician.

They all greeted the Croatian captain, that being four of the Spaniards who participated in Zagreb, but it wasn't a standard, along-the-way greeting, at least as far as Nacho could ascertain. There was defeat in their bearing, but it's mostly been worn off after Gran Canaria and days of proper sleep.

Still, as much as they would feign keeping the walk along Champions League and La Liga like nothing had happened, occasional glances the Croat would get at his back from his Spanish colleagues when he wasn't looking told Nacho otherwise. At first he thought it was resentment because cold steel in Isco's eyes seemed definitive, and what Ramos had to give to his on-and-off-field brother was the most slackened of handshakes. They were both tired and strength-deprived. Each in their own way.

But Modrić had someone sew his spine up because when Nacho walked up him to gift him with a warm hug, he felt radiating trembles from within the Croat, and which didn't derive from the November's cold.

„Leg?" Luka asked when they parted.

„Don't even feel it. I feel like I could train today and nothing would happen."

„Hmm." Luka squinted on one eye. ˮBetter lay low for however long they assigned you, _chiquillo_. You'd be of less use if your recovery was prolonged."

The Spaniard grinned. ˮYou put up a good fight. I've seen everything. You weren't joking when you said it back then. You have my genuine congrats. I'm happy for you."

„Thank you, Nachete."

The defender felt a sudden need to crack his fingers. ˮAre you feeling alright?"

„Yeah", Luka smiled. There was something both proud and sad in it, but his next words had Nacho grounded. ˮWar is an old friend."

He strode on, the same straight bearing in his walk to where Bale was gesturing him to come over. Feeling a familiar sensation, Fernández turned around to look who was watching him.

Ramos' gaze wandered over and through Nacho to where Luka was leaving, lost on the horizon of wan thought. Strings of jealousy, loathing, and exhaustion wove themselves into something far beyond the simplicity analysis' sake, despite what it could mean in the eyes of the rest of the world. But at the same time, they were so pure that the younger Spaniard had no trouble tieing both ends together.

And just like that, Nacho realized. Luka's stance, Ramos' monologue, the look in his compatriots' eyes — it all came clear.

It wasn't jealousy or resentment they were showing, or thought they did. It was respect.

The gathered _La Furia_ players were still paying respect to this small man who had four million undoubtedly-devoted people behind his back. The same people who were Croatia's twelfth player on the field.


End file.
